Message In A Bottle
by pacejunkie
Summary: A bottlecentric fic. A bottle filled with messages representing hope for the survivors as the raft sets sail.


Title: Message in a Bottle

Rating: K+

Summary: A bottle-centric fic. A bottle filled with messages representing hope for the survivors as the raft sets sail.  
Warnings: none  
Status of Fic: Completed.  
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters in this story, nor do I own any rights to the television show "Lost". They were created by JJ Abrams and Damon Lindelof and they belong to them, Touchstone, and ABC. I do, however, own a bottle. A nice one.

**The Bottle Is Selected**

The bottle was lucky. It was selected among many for a very special purpose. While other bottles were merely vessels for fluids, conduits for sustenance of the body, this bottle would be a vessel for hope—and hope could sustain body, mind and soul. This was more than a mere purpose. This was the bottle's destiny, a chosen path that raised it above the fate of all other bottles on the island.

Yet it would appear that the bottle came to this destiny purely by chance. Once it had held wine, an Australian Shiraz to be exact. A fine, high caliber of wine, encased and sealed with a natural cork within the sensuous curves of its emerald green glass, setting this bottle far above others from the outset. It had been packed carefully, lovingly in the suitcase of a traveler--a souvenir, to be brought back home and opened on a special occasion.

But such was not to be the bottle's destiny after all, because instead it ended up on an island, a testament to the existence of its once proud owner. The bottle lay in the dark confines of the abandoned suitcase for many hours, womblike, wedged between the socks and the sweaters that protected its fragile glass, until it was reborn, discovered by a survivor who celebrated by drinking its contents. One would think that would have been the end of the life of a bottle, its purpose fulfilled, its container discarded. But just as one never knows in life when one has completed its true purpose, so it was for the bottle. The journey continued.

The bottle lay in the sand for many weeks, exposed to the elements. The rain and humidity caused the label to pucker and disintegrate, until eventually it faded and then wore completely away, leaving only the sticky residue of the paste behind. Lacking the information it had borne, one could no longer discern the exact potable that once thrived within, a once proud past forgotten. At other times its glass surface absorbed the heat of the sun while it reflected its radiance brilliantly like a gemstone. Yet although it had the ability to attract attention, still it lay neglected, while less elegant but far more practical plastic water bottles were now in high demand, like a world turned on its head. That changed the day the bottle was selected.

On that very special day the bottle was picked up and taken by a survivor with an idea. He lifted the bottle from its resting place on the beach where it lay half buried in the sand like a sleeping sun worshipper. A large ring on the man's finger made contact with the glass as he grasped it causing a delicate note to chime out, like music. He carefully brushed it off, examined it for any cracks or damage until satisfied, he tucked it under his arm and whistling, walked away. The bottle was transported, reincarnated, to the place where its next life would begin.

**The Bottle Is Filled**

The bottle stood proudly right side up once again on a crate, surrounded by scraps of white paper that seemed to grovel at its base. The survivor who had rescued it from its sandy grave was writing a note, scribbling with a pencil, pausing periodically to collect his thoughts. Finally it was completed, words of hope for both sender and recipient. The paper was rolled tightly lengthwise and slipped inside the bottle's narrow opening, where it lay to rest at the bottom, full of expectation and promise. It would soon be joined by many other pleas for human contact.

Once again the bottle was carried, this time awkwardly, as its owner juggled the bottle along with pencil and paper in his two hands. He walked to a place where there were many people gathered around a large man-made structure, a raft, that was being packed and made ready to set sail. Hope was as palpable in the air as it was in the bottle. People chattered excitedly, embracing one another, making plans for the new future they believed they would have now that rescue was possible.

The one who possessed the bottle was mingling with the crowd, handing out slips of paper. When they were filled they were rolled up and placed inside to join the first. Jockeying for position, resting against other notes, occasionally shaken by outside forces, the bottle's interior became a microcosm of their society.

Every time the survivor encountered someone new he would speak. He turned from one person who had just completed a note to face another, "Thanks, man, I'll keep it safe. Hey, Locke, do you have a message? It's going on the raft. You know, 'Dear mom, Everything's fine. I'm on the island, unless, of course, the black smoke people turn up. Love, your name here'. For when they get rescued... they can contact your family."

"A message in a bottle?" the man replied, "That's sweet." The man turned away, intrigued yet uninterested in making a contribution to the bottle's cause.

Still the survivor persisted, undeterred, because most were willing. Most had family or friends or some other loved one left behind in the real world with whom they were desperate to make contact. They filled the paper with their most private thoughts, like tiny diaries, imbuing the very pages with the same hope and promise as the bottle itself. Some notes contained admissions of guilt, confessions of love or hidden secrets revealed; others were simply stark messages of assurance that a person's missing loved one was alive.

Many were determined that their thoughts remain private. As one large heavyset survivor completed his note and handed it to the other smaller man, it came with the admonition, "Don't look at it."

But the smaller man had difficulty controlling his impulses. He also rarely took his friend seriously when he told him anything, so he began to unroll and look at the note right there in the larger man's presence causing him to warn his friend in a more stringent tone, "Dude, do _not_ look at it!"

The bottle's owner got the message and placed the note inside. He then slipped back into the crowd to collect the scraps from the last of the survivors, the ones who had needed more time to decide what their notes would say, until at last, the task was completed. Once again, just as in its former life, the bottle was filled.

**The Bottle Sets Sail**

After it was sealed and as watertight as the owner could make it, the bottle was handed over to another survivor who would take it with him on the raft, an implied but unstated wish of good luck hanging in the air between them. The bottle was placed inside a cooler and with the assistance of every available hand, the raft was launched. There the bottle rocked and swayed, enveloped by darkness once again as it came ever closer to its next port of call and the completion of its mission.

Before reaching its final destination however, it was removed, roughly and without hesitation, by a restless raft passenger in search of reading material, the same individual who had accepted the bottle from the note collector on the beach. This passenger was rarely bothered by his conscience enough for it to slow down his impulses, so without pause he uncorked the bottle, removed the messages inside, one by one, and with the bottle pinned securely under his boot, began to read silently to himself.

The young boy who sailed with them was alarmed, for his conscience was still young and untarnished. "Those are all the messages everybody wrote" he observed, accusingly.

"Sure are", replied the man, unperturbed.

"They're private" said the boy, persisting in his attempt to arouse the man's sleeping sense of ethics.

The man continued to read, exposing the survivors' innermost thoughts like a cheap tabloid. "Yep. I, for one, never knew how much Tracy missed her hubby and two kids back in Fresno. Yet she's sleeping next to good old Scott to keep her warm at night."

"That's Steve. Scott's dead" pointed out the boy, feeling just a touch guilty for allowing his ears to be a party to such gossip.

The man was uninterested in the details. "Whatever" he said. "It's a long ride, Kazoo, we've got to keep ourselves entertained", he rationalized, before returning his attention to the next note. "Who the hell is Hugo and how's he got a 160 million dollars to leave to his mom?"

The boy decided to try a different tactic. "How would you like if I read yours?" he asked.

Still the man was unmoved. He had a heart of stone. "You can't read mine because I didn't write one" he said, hoping to put an end to the tedious conversation.

But the boy's curiosity was not sated. "Why not?" he asked, in the innocent manner that only a child could have.

The man tried once more to shut the boy up. This time he dropped his hands down still clutching the last note, let out a heavy sigh, looked the boy square in the eye and said, "Because the only one I ever wrote is to the man I'm going to kill."

When he was finished reading the messages and there was no more trust left to violate, the man returned the slips of paper to the bottle, sealed it up and placed it back in the cooler unceremoniously, the entire event representing nothing more than another slight detour in the bottle's travels.

**The Bottle Is Lost**

The raft would never reach its destination. After many uneventful hours the bottle was suddenly and violently jolted from its resting place by the force of an explosion. The powerful percussion caused the cooler to spew its contents into the ocean, a sacrifice to the depths of the sea. The bottle was hurled into the icy waters. The sky was black as ink with neither moon nor stars to provide light. The only light source came from the fire that consumed the main portion of the raft that had survived the initial blast.

There were screams. Screams from the young boy and screams from his father as they searched in vain for each other in the night with their voices. Their frantic shouts faded slowly until they were gone altogether, swallowed up by the darkness. Also vanishing was the sound of another boat, this one powered by a motor.

The people that had set sail on the raft were gone and now all that remained of the once proud boat was floating debris, scraps of flotsam bobbing along the water's surface struggling to survive. By the time one of the passengers surfaced, the one who had ravaged the bottle and exposed its secrets, the bottle was at a safe distance far away, floating on a gentle current that kept the bottle upright and its restored contents dry.

In this way the bottle was swept along on its new path, its former mission, its destiny, now nothing more than a pipedream, another unattainable goal in life. Life being full of twists and turns, in the dark, the changes in direction could not easily be predicted. Sometimes the changes were so abrupt as to appear meaningless, random acts of chance. But often all it took was a single positive outcome to infuse one's entire existence with purpose. The bottle's true destiny was still unknown.

By the time the sun rose on a new day, the bottle was in view of the coastline, the current having returned it to the island. It would appear that there was no leaving this island, not even for the bottle, the vessel of hope that would soon be dashed.

**The Bottle Is Found**

The bottle washed up on the sand only to be taken back out by the next incoming wave, back and forth, teasing the island with its arrival, as if the ocean was undecided as to whether it wished to part with it. Finally, it was rescued from this child's game by a young woman, walking alone on the beach, her platinum blonde hair pulled back and woven loosely into a braid. She stopped on her walk to take in the beautiful clear morning and inhale the fresh sea air. As she did she glimpsed an object floating in the shallow water's edge. She stepped closer and retrieved the bottle holding it close to her face to spy the messages within.

Her brow tightened in concern at the realization that the return of the bottle could only mean one thing—that something tragic must have befallen the raft and its occupants. The woman looked back out onto the vast horizon, searching the waters for further clues of the raft's fate, but she saw nothing, the bottle being the only tangible sign that the raft and its passengers had ever existed. She took the bottle and headed back to her camp.

The woman's initial impulse was to show the bottle to the leaders of the group, to alert them to the possible catastrophe. Then she sobered and realized that if something had happened to the raft, there was nothing to be done. The important thing was that for the first time, the survivors had hope. She recalled that someone on the island had once said that hope was a dangerous thing to lose, so the woman took her desire to share her grief and buried it down deep. Then she surreptitiously sought out a single confidante to whom she would disclose her find.

Turning from the shore, the woman carefully crept back to her tent, bottle held low at her side like contraband, eyes searching the beach as she walked to avoid contact with other survivors. When she reached her shelter undetected she breathed a quick sigh of relief before wrapping the bottle in a spare blanket that normally swaddled her infant son. Another island friend was watching her child while she had taken her walk and to the woman's good fortune, they had not yet returned.

She cradled the bottle like her baby, presuming most people were used to seeing her that way and would therefore give neither her nor her intentions a second thought. Then she sought out her friend, another blonde woman but taller, and found her lounging alone at the edge of their camp. She knelt down and the other woman watched as she peeled away a small corner of the blanket, revealing what actually lay within. Then the bottle was quickly covered again, truth enveloped in darkness. They spoke and agreed together that the news would be shared with just one other survivor, one more emotionally invested in the raft passengers' fates than they. She would decide what to do.

Before they sought out the one who would decide, the two women returned to the smaller woman's tent to await the return of her son. The bottle lay tucked away, hidden under a makeshift table covered by a cloth, as they sat and shared their thoughts about the raft until the smaller woman saw her friend approaching with her son in his arms. Pleasantries and words of gratitude were exchanged until the friend sensed by the uncomfortable pauses and sideways glances that he had interrupted some private talk. He dropped his head and hastily made an exit, causing the two women to giggle like schoolgirls, nervously, indulgently allowing themselves a moment of levity before the gravity of the task that lay ahead.

As the smaller woman then cradled her son once again in her arms, the baby already drifting asleep safe and secure, her taller friend retrieved the bottle from its hiding place, still concealed in the blanket. She removed the wrapping and, exchanging conspiratorial looks, the two women headed into the jungle.

**The Bottle Is Buried**

The bottle was carried to a clearing in the jungle, to a garden where the survivors had begun to cultivate crops necessary for their sustenance. The women approached a third woman who was working in the soil. With the bottle concealed from view they called to her. She turned at the sound of her name and knew right away from their expressions that the subject was a serious one.

"What's wrong?" she asked as she rose slowly, body tensing in anticipation of the fearful unknown.

"Um... I... I found something out in the water" said the small woman with the same gentle manner as she held the baby in her arms, "and I told Shannon about it, and, you know, we thought you should know."

She paused and looked at her friend, who now revealed what she held with her arm outstretched. Her expression was pained, as if she was truly sorry to be handing the other woman this burden.

Although the woman recognized immediately what it was and required no explanation, still the smaller woman with the baby felt compelled to say, "... It's the messages from the raft. We thought you should decide what to do."

The bottle was passed on and accepted by its new recipient reluctantly but respectfully, like an inheritance, a final bequest bestowed upon an heir by one who was much loved. The woman caressed the bottle with her fingers, the undelivered messages still nestled inside, tears forming in her eyes, as she reflected on all that the bottle represented to her, and the possibility of what little remained.

Later that night, the camp gathered around campfires to share a newly discovered source of food. The air was electric, charged with anticipation and the hope of rescue. Survivors were rejoicing and celebrating as if a fleet of vessels had already arrived on shore and they were toasting the island farewell. At the same time, the woman who held the bottle remained at a distance from the camp, kneeling in the sand and shadows. Over her shoulder she heard the sounds of laughter and light conversation, but the woman's heart was heavy. She alone would bear the burden of the camp's grief for now.

With her hands she began digging a hole in the sand, a small grave in which to bury hope. When the plot was ready the bottle was laid to rest inside, once again reaching a point where it appeared to be at the end of its journey, prepared to return to the dust of the earth, its mission to remain forever unfulfilled. Reciting a silent prayer, a sorrow-filled eulogy, the woman restored the displaced piles of sand and covered the bottle. In a final twist of irony her wedding ring unknowingly had slipped off while she worked, as the woman mourned in private agony for her missing husband who had been a passenger on the raft.

**The Bottle Is Retrieved**

As fate would have it, the bottle's journey was not complete. It lay in its dark, seaside crypt while the survivors' lives continued in ignorant bliss. Only the three women who had been party to the deception knew that all was not as it appeared. For them hope lay buried, as thoughts returned to mere survival, nourished only by the promise of another day. So it continued until one day light was shed on the bottle again, as it was disinterred by the same woman who had performed the burial, searching frantically for her missing wedding ring.

It was a curious resurrection indeed for the bottle, which had already endured more lives than any inanimate object had the right to expect. It would appear to be the ring that brought about its revival, a ring which at the moment lay buried alongside the bottle like ancient treasure in an Egyptian tomb, as its owner awaited passage to the next world.

Two hands reached in and pulled the bottle out from the small pit, exposing it to the light. There it was examined by two women, one who still searched for her ring and another who accompanied her, in search of the bottle and the hope that still remained inside.

Without pause and in a similar manner as the raft passenger who brazenly opened the bottle to read its notes, the woman, her long brown unkempt hair hanging stubbornly in her eyes, unsealed the bottle, overturned it and poured out the messages inside with abandon. The other woman watched her, horrified at the sight of the private correspondence that had been let loose. Her friend had begun unrolling each message and scanning its contents.

Just as the young boy on the raft had tried to do, the woman appealed to her friend's sense of morality. "Kate! Those are private. Kate, stop. What are you doing?" she cried.

But this was no reckless violation of privacy. The woman had no interest in the gossip and scandals that the notes may have contained. "We didn't, uh... I didn't say goodbye" she explained, eyes cast down in regret.

She had searched only for hope, for some token of remembrance of the passenger on the raft, with whom a proper farewell was now impossible. In service of this mission the bottle gave of itself. It emptied its very being out onto the sand to provide the woman with some scrap of hope, only there was none.

The women shared a moment of silence for their losses, with the empty bottle lying between them, spent, until finally one looked up and her eye caught the glint of something shining in the opened hole. "Sun" she said, eyes wide in disbelief for the miracle of the bottle's final offering to this world, the wedding ring rising up out of the sand.

**THE END**


End file.
